Cable ties (Autistic erotica)

She’d initially glinted me that look and said she wanted stretching. I immediately thought medievally of cranking contraptions I’d seen in a dungeon sometime, the cable ties in my rucksack, and the bars of her brass bed; and this dilemma: She is demure, but her bed is large. I could tie her arms or her legs to the rails, but not both. Not without rope.

First world problem, I know.

At first I thought I’d tie her arms.

This, I anticipated, would be aesthetically pleasing but, on reflection, lacked the primordial feel I was going for, so I changed my mind and allowed the reptillian part of my brain to choose. This stark reality presented itself: “Do I prefer unfettered access to her top or bottom half?”

Ankles then.

And Face up/ Face down?: The places of her to love multiply.

I tied her wide enough for hip room, and tight enough for no nonsense. There would be the inevitable chafing, requiring her to pull her socks up to hide the soreness from friends.

So, I find myself sitting cross-legged, my back to the bedstead, with one of her strong calves either side of me; a ritual magic triangle with a spectacular view: Her already slighly swollen labia, her trim and glistening pubic hair, her rhythmic breath moving her breasts, her magic mouth, and the merest sliver of hazel and black glances in the peach tinted light.

I wanted to howl with orgiastic delight.

She couldn’t stop herself and wriggled, testing her strength against the black shiny vinyl that coiled around her reddening ankles. Perhaps, if we put the sex play aside for a moment, it dawned on her that she was actually, not just play-trapped, and although she could retaliate with her arms if necessary, it couldn’t be denied that her vagina was at my mercy.

I pushed myself back up against the rails to give myself space, and, while I was in the vicinity, generously rubbed some feeling into her ankles. I don’t want her suspecting I’m callous.

Or give her calluses.

Raising my arms high opened my diaphragm and made my penis twitch hard, almost barking. Lowering myself, and twisting my trembling spine, I pushed against her labia and clitoris with the ridge of my nose,  light-flick licking with the tip of my tongue around the entrance to her vagina. Pulling my dry, rough tongue across her genitals into her pubic hair, I coiled it, like twisting it around my little finger. I could smell her salty lubrication before feeling the moistness. I spelt my name with my tongue on her clitoris. Then her name. Between, I trace an anti-clockwise, gentle ♡.

I reposition, cross-legged, so that my knees rest under her soft, lifted thighs with the head of my penis glistening with her wetness, just circling the event horizon of her vagina; stirring the lip of her inside. I flourish the (getting sloppy) shaft of my penis across her labia (like fish dancing through tentacles of coral or anenomae). Rubbing the glans insistently on her clitoris – (the meeting of nerve clusters) – caused a warm throb in my stomach that felt like love.

I lean across her and reach for her hands, pushing her arms back over her head. Her back arches and the horizontal angles bring us into alignment. My lips nudge and kiss her breast. Her vagina yearns in waves of palpitations. She grips me with her knees and clutching fingers, then devours me.

I am levitated.

And extend, forcing the soles of my feet against the brass rails, pushing and unravelling my spine like stretching new wings until I am flying above her, touching only at our genitals and our finger tips.

Pressures become pleasures.

In waves.

I sink into her kiss.